Sherlock, Pine, Violin and Wine
by LoveAlltheSherlocks
Summary: John's first Christmas at Baker Street; My 2011 "Sherlock Secret Santa" Fic


**Hello! This is my Sherlock Secret Santa Fic for Clennie. I had already uploaded it to my AO3 Account but remembered just now it wasn't here, so here we are.**

**Clennie requested a John Watson related peice, and informed me that she loved character studies. While I've never done a true character study concerning a fic, it was wonderful to try and imagine what John was thinking rather than Sherlock. I took a few liberties here, but I hope you enjoy it. (It's so long, I'm sorry!) It's my longest one-shot, but definitely worth it. All the feels and cases of emotion, and all happy ones! It was so much fun to write; I must thank Clennie for the opportunity to broaden my writing experiences. Thanks to Gerg for helping me read it over and name it, and Riley for reading it and fanboying at me. **

**On an unrelated note, thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed any of my peices so far. It is such a nice to thing to read feedback, and even nicer when people _enjoy _what you write. This holiday fic has been clouding my mind and I had a deadline so expect more additions to my other fics soon!** **My AO3 username (for anyone who has one) is LoveAlltheSherlocks. Occasionally things get posted there a day earlier than here, just because it's so much easier without the Doc manager. edit, i have fixed the thanksgiving mention. sorry to whoever noticed it.**

**Happy Christmas!**

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><p>It took John 6 days to convince Sherlock that a Christmas tree would be a nice addition to the flat for their first holiday. Sherlock argued, using fairly good logic and made a good point; Neither of them would even be home to enjoy it on Christmas Day. Sherlock would be at the usual Holmes' family dinner-much to his dislike. And John would be with Harry; Sadly, this meant a quick dinner with one too many glasses of wine, and him looking after Harry into the early hours of Christmas morning, wondering if next year will be anfy different. John knew Sherlock's argument made sense, but he simply replied that during december it would be nice to come home and see a tree, add a few ornaments each day and look at the lights while drinking his tea.<p>

"It'll be my first Christmas back," he said. "We need something to liven up the place." He raised an eyebrow before Sherlock could even respond. "Besides your skull."

Sherlock couldn't say much after that, except that it was John's flat too and if he wanted to pay for something as _trivial_ as a tree Sherlock couldn't stop him. But he'd take no part in it.

And then there was a visit from Mycroft, informing Sherlock that this year's plans were changing- He had been invited to a long Holiday in a _lovely _location (also, a very private one) with some officials, and Mummy was coming with. "You are, of course, invited to come," Mycroft said, as John stepped into the living room

Sherlock plucked a G on his Stradivarius and stated simply,

"A case could open up. I need to be available. Make my excuses to Mother."

Mycroft left then, sighing and nodding to John. John used this to support his previous arguments.

"I guess it's a good thing we're getting the tree then; you'll have something to look at." But Sherlock only huffed in response and set the violin under his chin, beginning to play a soft melody. John sat in the chair. After a few minutes, Sherlock paused.

"I'm not decorating it."

John picked out the tree by himself, of course, on the second day of December. He also bought some relatively cheap ornaments and garland from the hardware store, and despite him not wanting to go overboard, found a silver star to place on the top.

It is very difficult to bring a tree home from a lot in London if you don't own a car, which no one really does. So John left the tree under his name at the lot and told the man he'd be back to pick it up this weekend. But after getting home from picking up dinner for Sherlock and himself, he noticed the tree was leaning against the banister of Mrs. Hudson's stairs inside the door. He walked up to it and opened the note card settled between two of the branches.

_He won't decorate it, you know. But you get points for trying. MH_

John rolled his eyes and pocketed the note. After 20 minutes, he finally had the tree upstairs.

When Sherlock returned to 221b that night, it almost felt as if there was another person in the flat. He stepped into the living room, shedding his coat, and there he saw it.

The tree was sitting in the corner, perfectly placed between the front window and the fireplace. John had moved Sherlock's chair to angle beside his own. He had even wrapped an old quilt round the base of the tree, but he hadn't put any ornaments on yet.

Sherlock brushed his coat and laid it on the arm of the sofa, before looking in John's direction. John was sitting in his chair, ankles crossed, reading the paper. He looked up. Sherlock took off his blazer and unbuttoned his cuffs.

"I do hope this _tree_ isn't keeping us from being able to pay the rent this month." John laughed.

"Usually I'm the one worrying about our funds."

Sherlock glared. "Yes. And here you are, buying _Christmas decorations, _of all things." He went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. John just smiled and went back to the paper.

John returned home from the clinic two days later and passed by the doorway to the living room. He stopped and stepped back, leaning back to look inside.

Sherlock was sitting, cross-legged on the floor by the tree, threading the hooks into the ornament hangers. Garland had already been perfectly draped around the tree. Sherlock was always the perfectionist.

John smiled and went to his room to change.

Over the next 6 days, the tree was fully decorated, except for the star. Every day Sherlock would add a few more ornament balls, and John would add a few when he came home. Sherlock even brought home a set of candy canes, simply stating that Mother always put candy canes on the tree. He then told John him and Mycroft would steal them, of course. This surprised John, but he was happy to have Sherlock even _notice _the tree.

Eventually all that was left was the star.

Sherlock was insistent the star be kept for Christmas Eve. And that he would do it.

"I'm taller, anyway," he said. "You'd need a ladder. Makes more sense that way."

John tried not to take offense to the last comment. He was actually enjoying this change in Sherlock; He didn't think something as simple as the good-old Christmas tree would expose an enthusiasm in anything other than serial killers and murders in Sherlock. But here he was, sitting in the chair next to him, watching him stare at the tree without saying a word. It was almost as if he was a child, staring in awe at the lights and the shininess of the ornaments and the glitter of the garland. It seemed to help Sherlock think, in the very least. John let himself felt proud of this personal achievement, if just for a moment.

A week and a half until Christmas Eve, and they were on a case. John stood off to the side today, as Sherlock rambled on about why Mrs. Dalloway _clearly _couldn't have been killed by her husband, because of the jacket she wore, Lestrade, the _jacket. _John scuffed his feet into the sandy dirt quietly. Soon, Sherlock was finished, and they started home.

Sherlock didn't even look up from his phone when he asked.

"So will you be gone on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day?" John's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Sherlock never planned ahead.

"Well, I spend the night with Harry; she's usually half-plastered by 8." John wrinkled his nose. He didn't want to think about it, to be honest. Every year it was the same, save for the year he was in Afghanistan. Sometimes John thought that year might have been a little easier for him than ones with Harry; he could look after himself for once.

Sherlock continued to type into the Blackberry with no response.

When they got home, Sherlock slipped his dressing gown on and sat in his chair automatically, pulling his laptop out from beside it. He typed a few things (notes, most likely, but John never asked) before closing it, and leaned to grab his violin. John settled down in his chair as well, leaning back into the cushions and closing his eyes. The pain in his shoulder was resurfacing at the moment, probably due to the long amount of time he had to hold the tree because Sherlock had accidentally knocked into it during an excitable rant about the case.

It was funny, how the small things like that made John hurt- yet he could run around all day, two steps behind Sherlock, with no pain at all. And it wasn't until John had relaxed himself when he felt Sherlock's eyes on him, leering. He opened his right eye. "Yes?"

Sherlock's head was cocked to the side. "Your shoulder."

John blinked. He was sure he didn't mention the pain or even grunt at it. "What about it?"

Sherlock straightened his neck and looked at the bow of the violin, examining it. "It's in pain, obviously. We didn't chase after anyone today."

John shook his head. "Not a big deal," he said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. "I'm not 20, anymore." He closed his eyes again. Sherlock said nothing else, but after a moment, set the violin under his chin to play a melody.

It was a soft one, maybe even one of Sherlock's own- John could have assumed any melody Sherlock played to be his own composition, because he knew next to nothing of the classics. But each time Sherlock played something, he made it his own anyway. And Sherlock knew how to play to John's mood, as well. All of a sudden, he felt himself sink into the back of his chair even more, feeling a bit like Jell-o. Sherlock continued the melody for as long as John could remember; until the colors of the backs of his eyelids blended together into a shade of black, and he was asleep.

He dreamt of Harry, red bottles hanging over her head as she cut a Christmas ham that was uncooked. John tried to tell her she shouldn't eat it, she'll get sick, but she cut it anyway. He floated into a room where Sherlock was sitting in his chair, but he looked different. His body was decaying, and his eyes were gone. He only sat there, and then suddenly, his head snapped in John's direction. John knew he couldn't see him, but he felt that Sherlock knew he was there, knew what he was thinking and how he looked.

John woke with a jolt in the chair, beads of sweat travelling down his back. His head felt heavy and his fingers swollen, as they had fallen asleep. It was dark out-proving the passing of a few hours. Sherlock was curled into a ball, near the tree. His bare feet were inches away from the fireplace, and he was breathing soundly. John took a breath and looked at the clock. 8:17. He could hear soft music.

It took him a moment to realize the music was coming from his phone, the vibrations being muffled by his leg and the chair's arm. He groped for it, finally standing up and turning around to get it. He pressed the greet phone button. "'ello?" His voice was deep and groggy.

It was Harry. Her voice was slurred a bit, but not a lot. John thought she couldn't have had more than a few drinks that night. It seemed a petty accomplishment, but John felt better knowing this. Only a few drinks meant he wouldn't be on the phone long, convincing Harry he still loved her and anything else he said to keep her from going into a drunken fit, sobbing and eventually pushing John to grab his coat and catch a cab to see her.

She was giggly, though-meaning John _would _have to take the time to get her to be serious enough for the reason _she _called _him._ He asked how she was, said he was fine. She asked about the "freak", to which John replied, "Sherlock's getting into the Christmas spirit, under my influence." He chuckled. Harry didn't believe him, anyway. And if she did she was too tipsy to really care. She asked about Christmas Eve.

"Of course I'm still coming down. No, he'll be at the flat. No, Harry, I won't-yes, Harry-I promise, Harry. I'm still spending the night at your place." It was all getting to be a bit tiresome. But John wouldn't let himself think it. He felt that admitting that would admit that he was getting tired of Harry-and if he admitted that, he'd feel worse. Worse than he already did, anyway. What kind of brother-

Sherlock made a small noise by the fire, low and deep. He curled his toes. John reached behind the sofa to grab a small blanket from the pile and gently laid it over Sherlock's legs and up to his shoulders. It was an automatic movement, and he thought nothing of it.

John stretched a bit to wake himself up, but to no avail. He was more tired than he thought he was, legs and arms (shoulder included) feeling stiff but gooey at the same time. He looked at the clock again, 8:42. It was a bit early, but going to sleep didn't sounds like a half-bad idea. Sherlock was sleeping for once, and John might get a few decent hours' rest without hearing the violin or an experiment going on. He shed his clothes in his room and climbed in to bed. He had no dreams.

The winter holidays were the only time of John's childhood that he remembered thoroughly enjoying. No one was in a bad mood, and although Father drank probably even more than usual (due to all the parties his parents went to with the neighbors). He was a jolly drunk, happy to get a few weeks off from work Mrs. Watson baked all the time. She made all of John and Harry's favorites-Harry loved her cut-out pies and John always asked for fudge, the chocolate and peanut butter swirled kind.

He loved to help, too-his mother let him wear an old apron wrapped twice around his small waist and he would mix the cookie batter for her, sneaking little bits and chocolate chips if he could. When John was in the fourth grade he still liked to help his mother out. Harry had moved on, being on the verge of the teenage years, and liked to go to the "library" with her friends after school. But John always came straight home and if Mother was baking, he pushed off his schoolwork to be involved.

But it was when John was in 6th grade and he was almost 12 years old that his father came home, asking why he was baking. John said simply, "I like baking with Mum."

Mr. Watson was slightly irritated then. "Baking's for women. Go and play in the snow, it's starting to stick." But John just stood there, mixing spoon and bowl in hand, and said he wanted to bake with Mum. Mr. Watson's face showed a light shade of pinkish red.

"I said, go outside, John. Put on a hat, too."

John looked to his mother who only shook her head and gently pushed him into the hall with one hand. That night, he heard them arguing, raised voices. John didn't understand the big deal, anyway. It was only baking. And he liked listening to his mother sing Christmas songs, ones of Jolly and fa-la-la. But after that, he baked less and less.

Two years later, when John was almost 14 and Harry was 17, their parents were hosting their own Christmas party with the neighbors. John didn't see his extended family much, and later realized that his immediate family had nothing really to do with them. They liked to spend time with friends instead.

At this party there were exactly 24 people crammed into the Watson's 1300 square foot flat. John didn't understand why anyone would want to be at a party where there was no room to dance to music or walk around. Apparently the fun of this party was just standing around and drinking and talking. John had gotten rather tired of the drinking; being at his age he fully understood the effects of it now. So once guests arrived he shut himself in his room and read some books.

After a while Harry came in to join him. This surprised John-usually she wanted to be with her friends on breaks. But Harry told him her friends were at family gatherings of their own. So here she was. She asked if he wanted to get some snacks from the party and drinks.

"Mum said to stay out of the way," he said.

"Oh, come on. We'll get food and come right back here."

They weaved in and out of the small groupings of adults to head into the kitchen. Harry grabbed two small plates and together they picked the best-looking meats and cheeses, crisps and little desserts. Harry told him to open the fridge. Inside there was milk, eggnog apple juice and a pitcher of water. And 3 rows of beers.

"Grab one of those," she nodded to them. John shook his head.

"Those are dad's, Harry, he'll notice."

"He's already drunk, John, grab one!" she then left John to decide for himself. After waiting a few minutes he grabbed a bottle and rushed to the room, hiding it under his shirt and freezing his belly in the process.

"They nibbled at the delights quietly, until Harry opened the bottle and smelled it. She sipped it.

"Harry!" John hissed.

"Here, take a swig." She held it out to him. Reluctantly, he took it from her hands.

It tasted awful. It smelled awful. "How can you drink that?"

She grabbed a crisp and popped it into her mouth. "You get used to it."

"You drank before?" John's eyes grew wide."

"Yeah, Nicole always drinks at her house. Her parents are never home."

John took another drink and decided that yes, you could get used to it. It burned but not necessarily in a bad way. That's how everyone started, though. Getting used to it.

In his Uni days John drank a lot more than one bottle. In fact, every night, he did his research drunk, his papers drunk, his labs drunk, for the first two years. Freedom of college was too much for him. He quite enjoyed it, though. He liked going to parties and being with girls. He didn't mind waking up and not remembering things, because to him it was an excuse to try it all again the next night. Harry never finished school like he did, and he knew why, but it didn't stop him from his own indulgences.

But one night John received a call from the hospital, saying Harry had been admitted for a cab accident. He ran to the station and took the train to where she was, making it there in record time.

Apparently she and two friends had been drinking (of course), and one of them distracted the cabbie by screaming out loud. The cabbie ran a red light and crashed into a car coming from the opposite intersection. She was bruised up but she (and her friends and the cabbie) were fine.

Harry was waiting in the A&E waiting room when he got there, laughing her head off at nothing. He'd never seen her that drunk before. She mumbled and forgot who he was. He led her into a cab to go back to her apartment, and ended up staying there for three days. The first night she was so sick before falling fully asleep she had night terrors. She threw up and made a mess all over the bathroom floor, leaving John to clean up after her. He iced her and kept her hydrated, talking her to sleep at 5 in the morning, kneeled by her bed. She had no recollection of anything when she woke up. John wished he could have forgotten.

John went back to Uni that weekend and decided is he was to become a doctor, he was not going to drink that way anymore. And _certainly _not like Harry. He kept true to that vow. 90% of the time, anyway.

What do you get Sherlock Holmes for Christmas?

What do you buy for a man who solves murders for fun, never buys the milk, and mixes way too many chemicals on a daily basis?

What in _bloody hell _was John going to get him?

John perused the aisles of men's gifts in the department store. There were colognes (I don't need to attract anyone, John. Why wear cologne?), ties (I never wear ties, John, I'm sure you've noticed that), and cufflinks (I'd never wear cufflinks, John, only Mycroft would wear those silly things. What's the use in attracting attention to your cuffs? Only to show off money. Huh[I deleted a period here]).

John could practically hear Sherlock's voice searing through his mind. He rolled his eyes.

"I'm never going to find anything for him."He opted to try a gift for Harry instead. He rode the escalator to the second floor and walked through the women's aisles, shoes and coats and makeup. He couldn't get her anything last year, for obvious reasons. He wanted to make up for it this year. He asked her if there was anything in particular when wanted and Harry said the same thing as years before: "Only thing I need is a bottle of wine and a glass. Not even the glass." And so that's what John usually brought for her, out of unknowing what else to buy. He felt guilty for it, but after a few glasses himself he let himself forget the feeling.

John walked up to the jewelry counter, looking down. Within seconds, he had to dismiss an associate. "I'm just looking," he told her.

He came across a necklace in the far right corner of the box. It was smaller and not as "flashy" as the others, sterling silver with a heart shape hanging from it, decorated with stones. It was simple, but nice-looking. John asked to look at it, and held it in his hand-it wasn't heavy. He asked for the price, mentally preparing himself for something he couldn't afford. But it wasn't as bad as he thought, and four days before Christmas, John knew it was now or never. He said he'd take it. Might as well get it over with (he felt guilty for even thinking that). As he walked out of the store, he pocketed the box in his jacket and silently reminded himself to ask Mrs. Hudson her opinion on the gift. She was a woman, she'd know. They all know. It was like a secret connection they all had- what was good jewelry, what wasn't.

Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson! How could he forget Mrs. Hudson, who always brought tea and who wasn't the housekeeper but was anyway? John walked two streets down and stopped at a gift shop to look inside. He thought of her herbal soothers. Maybe some potpourri? No, too impersonal. He walked down the short and crowded aisles of the store, looking at candles and mirrors, pens and paperweights. It was hopeless. He opted for the potpourri, first instinct. He even bought a glass bowl with a ribbon on it to put it in. He left the store feeling overwhelmed, and smelling of lilac and rose.

John shook his head as he walked down the street, carrying the necklace in his pocket and the potpourri in a bag. He tried not to think of Sherlock and his gift. Who knew if Sherlock was going to give him anything, anyway? For all he knew, he was getting nothing from him. But John always gave gifts, even small ones. He has a few friends and family members, only a few people who talk to him on a daily or even weekly basis. Christmastime was a time for giving, and even it if meant Molly was just getting some new notebooks for her desk or Mrs. Hudson some potpourri, John wanted people to know they were appreciated.

John appreciated Sherlock. He did. When he kept his experiments away and was considerate, Sherlock could be fairly tolerable. John appreciated that Sherlock shared a flat with him; otherwise London wouldn't be his home. He appreciated the cases. Something new every week, running around after killers and hailing taxis at midnight gave something for John to have, for John to _be, _besides John Watson the army doctor, who came home with a gunshot wound and worked at the clinic for rent money. John appreciated the violin, Sherlock's melodies and notes played sometimes just for him (even if Sherlock never said it). And John appreciated Sherlock for being so smart, because though at times it could be irritating having him know and point out what was wrong with you, sometimes it helped to have him notice and silently understand things. John hated having to explain himself.

What gift tells all that? Especially one costing fewer than 50 quid?

He had four days to find out.

It was the night before Christmas Eve and no, John didn't find a gift. He did find a gift for Sarah, the newest CD from her favorite band (he'd never heard of them) and a pair of texting gloves-she had mentioned they would probably be very handy. And since all he saw her do was text-under the desk at work, on the way into the office, at the café on her breaks with him, in the taxi at night, John figured she was probably right. She'd use them a lot.

"Thank you, John!" Sarah smiled a genuine smile, relieving John of his worries. "They're wonderful." She held out her box to him, bigger and wrapped in reindeer paper. He peeled the tape with his fingers and pulled it open. It was a new jumper, navy blue and v-neck. Size medium, how did she know that? He held it up against him, smiling. A new jumper was always good.

"There's a receipt, if it doesn't fit. But I peeked at your jacket this week while you were out to lunch."

Ah, that's how.

"Thanks, Sarah, this is brilliant. Don't have any blue ones."

"I didn't think so. Haven't seen you wear one." She smiled.

They spend the afternoon talking about her new CD- well she did. John listened and tried to keep up with her story of her first concert to see the band and how her friend became so drunk she got sick.

John slipped the wrapped gift box under his bed and headed into the living room. Sherlock was sitting in his chair by the tree, hand steepled under his chin.

"Leaving?" he asked as John reached to take his phone from the desk.

"Yes, remember? I'm going to Harry's." Leave it to Sherlock to forget the plans.

"Ah. It's Christmas Eve." Sherlock's voice was monotone, drowned into the crease of his hands. John couldn't tell if he was serious or not.

"Err, yes." He checked his watch. "Got to get going, I'll be late. Err…Happy Christmas."

Sherlock looked up and gave what his version of a polite smile was. "And you." He crossed his legs and John turned for the door. He opened the door and turned back. "See you tomorrow. Sherlock had already opened his laptop and started typing, apparently not having even heard him.

"Oh, bugger." Harry picked up her napkin and rubbed at her shirt, attempting to clean the spot of wine. John glanced around.

"It looks fine, can hardly notice it."

Harry draped the napkin back over her leg and took a large drink from her glass before setting it back down. She sighed happily. "Aren't you going to get a drink?" She pointedly looked at John's water.

"This is fine." He took a drink as if to prove it. "Someone should be sober enough to tell the cabbie the right address." He immediately regretted that.

Harry sucked her teeth and pretended to be offended. "Oh, don't be like that. It's Christmas." She took another drink. "Time to celebrate! Jesus, and all that." She laughed. John laughed awkwardly and forked a large piece of chicken into his mouth to avoid speaking. Harry nibbled at her fish.

"I didn't get a gift this year, Johnny. Couldn't find a good one." Harry's eyes looked up from her plate for a reaction. John smiled.

"'S fine. You won't let me pay for dinner, so Happy Christmas to me." He raised his glass of water and took a drink, Harry her wine (finishing off the second glass). It was refilled within minutes, much to John's dismay. He wondered if Sherlock ate any of the leftovers. Maybe Mrs. Hudson brought something for him.

Harry interrupted his thoughts. "Did you get me something, then? I'd feel terrible if you did."

John sat up straight. "Something small. I'll give it to you tomorrow." Harry smiled.

"You're so sweet, John. You didn't have-"

"It's nothing Harry. Really." John cleared his throat. "I'm stuffed." Harry took this as a sign to call for the check.

The cab ride wasn't as bad as previous years-Harry only giggled a bit and noted the "pretty" lights of the decorated shops downtown. John checked his phone. No messages. Not that-

Harry climbed out of the car too fast for him, nearly stumbling. She searched her bag for her key as they approached the building's elevator.

"Happy Chri-" the attendant started.

"Christopher! Christopher, Christopher, Happy Christmas!" Harry leaned against the golden bar inside, pulling John's arm to follow. John smiled politely and asked for the fourth floor. At the ding, Harry excitedly walked into the hall, removing her shoes already John picked them up after her. He thought she only had three glasses.

She opened the door and dropped her purse on a chair, walking to the stereo. Suddenly, John walked into a loud rendition of "Jingle Bell Rock" ringing in his ears. He raced to turn it down. "Harry, come sit down." But Harry had already gone into the kitchen, and John heard the popping of a bottle cork. "No-"

She brought in two glasses and the bottle, trying to pour from it as she walked. John grabbed the bottle. "Here, I'll do it." He poured into the glasses, sighing. It was going to be a long night.

Harry finished the glass and repoured, capping john's as well. John drank a small swig, because what else was he to do? He and Harry finished most of the bottle, John only having two glasses, Harry the rest. He watched as she walked around, danced with her (only because she made him) and talked to her. That's what they did every year, by the end of the night. He talked, she listened. This year's topics were definitely more…interesting.

"So Sherlock doesn't date at all?" Harry leaned back into the sofa. John looked thoughtful.

"Guess not. Mostly he just cares about the cases. Experiments."

"Did he go to Uni?"

"I think he mentioned it once, but I don't know." John couldn't remember what Sherlock said.

"Does he ever talk about his family?" Harry turned towards him. John laughed. "Only the occasional jibe at Mycroft."

"What about his parents?"

"He's only mentioned his mother a few times. I don't know-"Harry interrupted him.

"What do you know about him, John? You live with him, for Christ's sake." She laughed loudly, leaning forward to refill her glass. John looked at her wordlessly.

What did he know about Sherlock? It's been the better part of year and Harry's right; he barely knew anything about the great Sherlock Holmes, except for how he took his tea and to never touch that thing in the fridge. And he wouldn't be a hero, even if they existed. These were the few things you remembered about Sherlock, but it wasn't enough to be talking about him. John looked down into his wine. Maybe he could text Sherlock. He'd probably still be awake.

"He's just…different, Harry. Hard to explain who he is, really." Harry wasn't listening, though. She was swaying her head to the music playing, eyes closed, smiling. John swallowed the remaining part of his wine.

"I want to see my gift." Harry demanded, opening her eyes. "You said you got me something." John shook his head.

"Tomorrow. Christmas morning." He wanted her to be at least sober when she saw it. It wouldn't mean anything, now. If it meant anything at all. But Harry leaned closer, eyes pleading.

"Please?" He tipsiness voiced through, making the word very long. John looked at her.

"Harry."

"John! Come on, I want to see."

"John sighed in defeat and walked to his jacket. He pulled the box from his pocket and sat back on the sofa, close to her. He held it out. "If you don't like it, I can return it." Harry took the box gently and swiped her thumb over it before opening it. John held his breath, watching her face for a reaction.

Harry stared at it for ten seconds, no expression. John reminded himself that a necklace was a bad idea. But Harry's face broke into a smile, and John sat back as he noticed some tears rolling down her cheek. "Harry?"

She breathed out a laugh and pulled the necklace out of the box. "John, it's so pretty." She held it up against the light, and John looked at it too. She was right. It really was pretty.

John felt Harry's hand gripping his and he looked at her. She hunched over a bit now, really crying. John didn't understand. "Harry, what's-"

"I'm sorry, John. I want to be better, I want-"she sniffed. John scooted closer, still holding hands with her. She leaned into his shoulder, looking at the necklace. John leaned his head on hers.

"Happy Christmas, Harry." He said quietly, into her hair. She sniffed.

"Thank you."

John sat on the edge of the bed, angled toward Harry, as she pulled her cover up. She looked up at him. "You can leave, you know." John smiled.

"Sofa's fine, really. I've slept in worse." Harry turned over and closed her eyes.

"But John, no one should be alone on Christmas."

John looked at her.

"Go," she mumbled. "Call me tomorrow."

John hesitated only a moment, before kissed her head and turned off the light before going outside to call a cab.

He opened the door quietly. It was silent in the flat. John wondered if maybe Sherlock went out, but that couldn't have been, his coat was there (a simple deduction, yes, but it made John feel slightly more clever). He headed upstairs and stepped into the doorway, to see Sherlock sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees by the fireplace, in his dressing gown.

Sherlock looked up and blinked a few times, before his lips curled into a small smile and his eyebrows rose in surprise. John raised his in response. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock stretched out his legs and crossed them. "I could ask the same to you. What of Harry?"

John took off his coat and went over to his chair. "She'll be fine." He watched as Sherlock grabbed a small box from under the tree and held it out, wrapped in blue and with a ribbon. John looked at it.

"I was originally going to leave it out for you to open when you returned. We always opened a gift on Christmas Eve."

John took the box and held it. "You're surprisingly traditional." Sherlock scoffed.

"Mycroft had his ways. Open it, please."

John slipped the ribbon from the box and lifted the top. It was an Mp3 player, white and blue.

"In case the violin ever gets…tiring." Sherlock looked down at his feet. John smiled.

"The violin is never tiring." Sherlock shrugged.

"Never know."

"This will be great for the ride to work, Sherlock. Thanks. It's fantastic." He looked Sherlock, whose face was unreadable. "Mine's upstairs, I could-"

"No matter. Aren't you going to try it out?" His eyes went to the gift. John thought for a moment.

"I'd much rather hear you play, tonight. It is Christmas."

Sherlock looked into his eyes for a moment, and smiled before leaning to grab the violin from his chair next to John. He held it under his chin and began to play "Silent Night". John leaned his head in his hand and watched, smiling. Suddenly, he remembered something and sat up.

"Did you go to Uni?"

Sherlock paused and lowered the bow. "Yes." His eyebrows furrowed in John's direction. "Why?"

John sat back again. "No reason."

Sherlock's gift box sat in his chair. John rubbed his eyes and yawned, waiting for Sherlock to come out. But his voice was audible through the bedroom door suddenly.

"Mycroft and Mother are home early. They've invited us over. Do you want to come?"

John went into his own room to change. "Sounds fine."

"I apologize in advance for the emotional trauma it may cause."

John laughed as he changed into his new jumper. He'd have to stop by Sarah's later, to show her. "I'm sure I can handle it."

He walked out and sat in his chair again, waiting. Then he saw the Mp3 player on the arm. He picked up the earbuds to place them in, and turned it on. The first song was an old rock one, one John recognized and was pretty sure he liked. The next was a Motown song, one of John's favorites. He shuffled through a few songs, not watching the screen, and came up to one with just a violin playing. It sounded familiar. He looked at the screen.

_Time in Passing- Sherlock Holmes_

John clicked the center button for the menu.

_***Browse Artist***_

_Violin Romance No. 2 (Beethoven) - Sherlock Holmes_

_Rarity- Sherlock Holmes_

_Partita in D Minor (Bach) – Sherlock Holmes_

John smiled. He may not know Sherlock Holmes terribly well, but he knew enough about him to know how much thought was put into this. He clicked to hear the next song just as Sherlock walked out.

"This is fantastic, Sherlock. The songs." John looked up as Sherlock slipped on his coat.

"Simple gift, John. No need for excitement." Sherlock pulled his scarf from his pocket but noticed the gift box in his own chair. He leaned over to pick it up and open it. John watched his face.

Sherlock let out a small laugh as soon as he saw it, and John took that as a good sign. Sherlock set the box down on the back of the chair, reaching into it. John saw a flash of blue stripes as Sherlock wrapped the gift around his neck, looping it in lightly. The stripes stood out against his coat, a bit more of a statement to his previous one. John smiled. Sherlock couldn't help but smile too, looking down at it. John may have done something right this Christmas.

"Ready?" Sherlock headed to open the door, prompting John to stand.

"Of course." John grabbed his own coat. Snow began to fall lightly outside. Sherlock paused, looking up at it from the doorway.

"Happy Christmas, John."

In fact, John felt he may have done more than one thing right this Christmas.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."


End file.
